A Walk on the Other Side
by Serialgal
Summary: Don is faced with a possible diagnosis of cancer.
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: **__This story is something of departure for me. Number one, it's short – eight chapters. Two, it's Don-centric, more of a Don-hurt, Charlie-comfort fic. Three, it contains no villains, at least not the human sort. Finally, even if some of my fics are AU, I like to leave my characters in more or less the same circumstances (jobs, love life, etc.) that they have in the show – in this piece of fiction, I don't. _

_Don't own Numb3rs or the characters, and I don't hope to profit from this story. This disclaimer applies to each chapter in this story._

**Chapter 1**

"Breathe."

"Hold…your-breath."

The man's taped voice repeated; a tinny, somewhat syncopated pattern of words. Too long on the "hold," then a quick finish that made "your breath" sound like one word. Don lay on the moving bed, arms over his head, hoping the thin blanket was pulled up far enough; he wasn't sure if the hospital gown was covering his lower anatomy. He felt exposed, a little cold. The small room was dark, dominated by the CAT scan machine in the center, a large white art-deco doughnut in the gloom. The table moved back and forth underneath its arch, scanning Don's chest, then stopped.

"Breathe out."

"Breathe." Don obligingly took in another deep breath. He felt a twinge in his left rib cage as he did so. Remnants of his second kidney infection in a month, which appeared to be turning into the beginning of the next infection

"Hold…your-breath." He rolled his eyes a little. The taped voice was beginning to annoy him. The table moved. In, out. Stop.

"Breathe out."

He endured several more repetitions, the machine making passes over his abdomen, and tried to ignore the uncomfortable warm feeling of the contrast that they had injected into his veins, and the tinny taste in his mouth. They had warned him that it would make him feel like he had wet himself, and although they assured him that he wouldn't really, the sensation was so strong he had the urge to pull his arms down and do a quick check of the gown, just to be sure. At least this would be over with soon. He had already spent four hours at the hospital, the first three drinking yet more contrast in preparation for the scan, and was itching to get back to the office.

Instead, he was stuck here, in the hospital, admitted through the ER. After two rounds of antibiotic to fight his kidney infection, the symptoms had begun to return. This time, his regular physician refused to see him until he went for a round of tests, and told him to report straight to the ER. Grudgingly, Don had gone, knowing that without the antibiotic, his symptoms would soon be unbearable. He would get this over with, get his prescription, and be on his way. Maybe the doctor would give him something stronger this time; that would kick the damn infection for good.

The pretty young woman in the lab coat re-entered the room, her face impassive. "Okay, all done," she said with practiced brightness, and the orderly who entered behind her rolled the wheelchair over to the bed of the scanner. Don sat up on the bed, swung his legs over, and stood, trying to keep the gown in place. He scowled at little as he lowered himself carefully into the seat. Why in the hell he had to sit in a wheelchair was beyond him. ER procedure, no doubt.

"We'll take you back to your room, and the attending doctor will speak to you there," she said.

Don nodded, and the orderly wheeled him out and down the hall. He was acutely aware of the eyes on him, as he was wheeled along. Mildly curious stares from hospital personnel; more open interest from people in street clothes. He felt somehow embarrassed. "_I'm not really that sick," _he wanted to tell them. Big strapping guy like him, being wheeled around in a wheelchair. That was for old people, and people who were truly ill.

He felt irritation at his doctor return with force. This was stupid; the idiot should have just given him the damn antibiotic. God only knew what this test cost. It didn't matter that his insurance would pay for most of it; it was a waste. No wonder health care costs were out of control. He sighed with a bit of impatience as the orderly wheeled him back into the small ER room. '_Let's get this over with, people_.'

One fidgety half hour later, the attending ER doctor, a pleasant-faced man in his forties, stepped into the room. His blue eyes were direct, steady. "Mr. Eppes, we have your results from radiology." Don's impatience was replaced by a sudden little flutter of something, anxiety maybe, at the man's expression, but it barely had time to register before the doctor continued. "I'm afraid you have a large mass in your left kidney."

'_Mass?'_ Don felt a strange sensation, a flash of heat and ice at once, pass through his body, but his face remained stoic. "What kind of mass?"

"It's really impossible to tell from the scan. It could be benign, or malignant. You will need to discuss these findings with your regular doctor, and I suspect that he will recommend a specialist. Your condition is not immediately life threatening, so you are free to leave. Your blood work and urinalysis do indicate signs of infection, and we are going to prescribe an antibiotic for you to have filled. I will contact your doctor as soon as he is available with these results." He paused, his eyes sympathetic. "Do you have any questions?"

Don's mind was spinning. '_Hell, yeah, I have questions. One big one in particular._' "No," he replied, trying to block out the fact that the man had used the word malignant. Even as a mere possibility, it was frightening. The impatience had returned; he was suddenly crawling with it, desperate to get out of there, to get back to the real world.

The discharge was swift, and a short time later, he was dressed, walking through the halls like the other people, back to normal, one of them – only not. He met casual glances with ones of his own, pretending to be them – ordinary people, caught up with ordinary worries, knowing full well that he was not – he was not them, he was not ordinary, he was not normal. The specter that sat in the back of his mind kept him in a different place, on the far side of a wall that they couldn't comprehend. He stepped out of the hospital doors into the bright autumn sunlight, and began his walk on the other side.

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End Chapter One


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Don downed the dose of Cipro with a bottle of water he'd picked up in the drugstore, and stepped out of his SUV. It was nearly one-o'clock, he noted, as he strode across the FBI parking deck toward the elevator. He felt strong, energetic. '_There's no way it's malignant,_' he told himself. '_I feel too good_.' He stepped into the elevator with a nod at the clerk already inside, and faced the door, chin up. '_No sense making a deal out of this until I know anything. It's probably nothing._'

Off the elevator into the bullpen. Business as usual.

"Hey," Megan greeted him. "How was your appointment?" None of them knew about the CAT scan; they were aware that he'd been struggling with the kidney infections, and he let them think it was just a routine appointment with his physician. Hell, that's what he had thought, that morning. Just a routine test.

"Okay, took long enough. I had to stop to get a prescription filled," he said nonchalantly, breezing past, nodding at David and Colby. He glanced through the notes on his desk, still standing. "What do we have?"

"We've got a meeting at one, to go over the Santini case," she said. "Forensics are back."

They gathered in the conference room. It _was_ business as usual – almost. He listened as the results were presented; participated in the resulting discussions, set the plan of action for the next part of the investigation. All the while, however, he was aware of the wall – transparent, invisible to the others in the room. He was on one side, and they were on the other. They were fully engaged in the case, immersed in the details without distraction. He found that he was able to do that also, to concentrate on the case, but now there was something else there.

His own mortality was something he rarely thought about, except for brief occasions after a dangerous raid, or chase. Even then, it was different – in those cases, he never had time to think about it during the event, it was always after it was over, and by then it was a non-issue. This was different; the possibility of his own death loomed like a roadblock ahead, casting a shadow, a different perspective on even the most fascinating or mundane conversation. It created a distance from the here-and-now. He looked at his team animatedly discussing the next avenue of investigation, and felt suddenly, strangely alone.

As he came out of the conference room, he caught a glimpse of Liz, across the office. His heart always did a funny little flip when he saw her, but today it twisted, in an odd contraction, half pleasure, half fear. She looked across at him and smiled, tentatively, and he smiled back, his face belying the emotion. He had been turning around in his head whether or not to tell her what was going on, and the sight of her made up his mind. He wasn't ready to tell her. What was there to tell? He didn't know anything yet.

He sat at his desk, and a few moments later, she walked over, and leaned against it. "Hey," she said softly. "Doctor appointment go okay?"

He leaned back to look at her. "Yeah," he said. "Just needed a stronger antibiotic."

She nodded, and looked away, with an odd look on her face, then looked back at him. "I need to take a little time off," she said, "I need to go back home for something. I was wondering if I could take a week and a half of my leave – all of next week, and the following Monday and Tuesday. I'll be back on the next Wednesday."

Don nodded, with a questioning expression. "Yeah, I think we're pretty good here right now."

She ignored his unspoken question. "I'm going to have to take a rain check for tomorrow night – I'm flying out in the morning."

"No problem," said Don, feeling, guiltily, a bit of relief. He was wondering if he'd be able to keep up the façade with her for the length of an evening. He frowned in concern at the look on her face. "Everything okay?"

She raised an eyebrow and scratched at it lightly, as if thinking, and looked away. "Yeah." She looked back at him with a half-smile. "Thanks. I'll tell you about it when I get back."

She rose from her perch on the desk, and Don watched her walk away. "Yeah," he said softly to himself. "Me too."

It was three o'clock before he could break away and call his physician. Maybe he could even get in at the end of today, he thought, glancing at his watch. Yes, they had received the results, the receptionist on the line told him. No, they didn't have any appointments today; in fact, there wasn't anything available until Tuesday morning. A surge of frustration ran through him. He had a goddamned tumor, for God's sake. They couldn't squeeze him in ahead of Joe Schmuck and his sinus infection? He tossed off the momentary self-pity. "Tuesday's fine," he said.

He laid the receiver down, and it suddenly hit him. The weekend was ahead. Dad, Charlie – he was supposed to go over to Charlie's tonight. What in the hell was he going to tell them? He had a sudden vision of Charlie's face when their mother was dying - lost, in agony, his eyes filled with torture, with desperation, suppressed only, barely, by P. vs. NP, by the calculations whirling in his head. Numerical Valium.

He knew the answer even as he asked himself the question. Nothing. The answer was nothing – for the same reason he had decided not to tell Liz. No sense saying anything until he knew for sure what this was. No sense pulling anyone else, anywhere near the other side before he had to. He set his jaw, pushed the demons away, and began organizing his case files.

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He showed up around seven, noting with dismay that his father had waited to order dinner until he got there. Dinner meant sitting together, facing each other, conversation.

"I'm ordering calzones," Alan said briskly, heading for the phone. "Pepperoni okay with you?"

"Yeah, Dad, fine," mumbled Don. "You guys didn't have to wait for me."

"Nonsense," returned Alan, as he dialed. "Playoffs are on tonight – Indians and Yankees. They've already started. We'll eat in front of the television." He relayed the order into the phone, and hung up. Don felt a twinge of relief. Good. The game would occupy their minds; monopolize the conversation.

"Grab yourself a beer," said Alan, as he turned from the phone.

"Nah, that's all right. I'm on antibiotics again," said Don. He opened the refrigerator anyway, snagged a bottle of water, and turned to find his father eyeing him sharply.

"Again?" asked Alan. "Kidney infection again?"

"Yeah." Don shrugged, noncommittal, and leaned back against the countertop. "He gave me something stronger this time. Cipro."

Alan's brow furrowed with concern. "If this round doesn't get rid of it, you'd better get in to see him."

Don shrugged again. "Yeah, I will." No sense telling him he already had an appointment Tuesday. No sense telling them anything, yet. He straightened up from the counter, just as the kitchen door banged, and turned to see Charlie. His brother's eyes were glinting with pleasure, and he wore a wide smile. It hit Don like a blow, and a tendril of fear wrapped around his heart. '_God, don't make me take that smile from him_,' he thought. '_Don't make me do this to them. Not cancer, please, not cancer…_'

"Hey Don, it's about time you got here," said Charlie, with a light punch to Don's shoulder. The gesture was affectionate; a little awkward; a little geeky, just like his brother. His knuckles left a dusting of chalk on Don's shoulder. Charlie pushed past him, toward the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of water for himself. "How was work?"

"The usual," said Don dryly, and they trooped out to the living room. "Turn the tube on, let's check out the score."

He needn't have worried that they would notice. The weekend passed uneventfully; neither of them suspected a thing. Don decided at first that he must be a consummate actor, but realized as the weekend wore on that they didn't suspect anything primarily because he wasn't acting sick, and the thought that there was anything wrong never entered their minds. He told himself it was a good sign – the fact that he seemed so healthy must mean that there wasn't anything seriously wrong with him. By the time Monday rolled around, he had convinced himself of it. There was nothing to worry about. He chided himself for being a big baby, and walked into work Monday with a grin on his face.

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The good feeling lasted through the week. His own doctor was no real source of information, but he wasn't a specialist, so Don really didn't expect too much from him when they met on Tuesday. He sent Don for blood work, and gave him the name of a specialist in renal oncology, a Dr. Atvani, who was associated with Cedars-Sinai. The CAT scan results and the blood work were sent on ahead to the doctor's office, and a consultation was scheduled for Friday. Just the thought of having to meet with an oncologist was unnerving, but Don buried it in the back of his mind. The Cipro was managing the infection nicely; he felt good, there was no pain. This thing had to be benign.

At work and at home, the wall was still there, but it was thinner, and most of the time he was able to reach around it. The fact that he was dealing with this alone – that no one else knew, hit him once in awhile, but the firm belief that it wasn't cancer made it less of an issue. If there was no cancer, this would at most be a blip in the radar of his life – his family's lives. He knew he was most likely facing surgery, and there would be recovery from that, but there was a future beyond it. He'd recover, they'd get over this, and move on. The idea made it easier to concentrate on the details of daily life, to feel and act normally. He was sanguine, in good spirits, and as he walked into his appointment Friday morning, he had not a clue that his optimism was about to be derailed.

Dr. Atvani's offices, which he shared with two other oncologists, were located in a stylish block of sculptured concrete near Cedars Sinai. Don strode down the hallway until he found the right door, and stepped into a tastefully decorated office, swathed in muted grays and blues. He checked in with the receptionist, gave her his insurance information, and sat. There were three other people in the room, a woman with an older man, who was obviously the patient, and another woman, middle-aged, who sat by herself. Don felt their eyes on him for a brief moment, speculating. He knew they had the same question in their minds that he did about them. Does he have cancer? Does she? His gaze flickered over them again, the old man and the middle-aged woman. They looked normal. Is that what cancer looked like when it started?

He reflected back to his mother's battle. He had returned when she was already well into it – he had returned to L.A. because of that. She was already sick, and hadn't seemed 'normal' by then. He wondered with sudden unease how long it had been there before she knew. Maybe she'd felt normal too, at the start. He could feel the doubts rising up to squelch his optimism, and he pushed them firmly back. His good mood was gone, however, and he was suddenly fiercely impatient to get on with this. One way or another, he had to know.

He looked away from the others, his eyes moving around the room. Many plaques and awards dotted the walls, along with certificates of continuing study, most of them belonging to Atvani. At least the guy appeared to know his stuff. Don's doctor had recommended him, highly. He took a deep breath, and leaned back in the chair, trying to relax.

He was surprised, and felt a little guilty, when the nurse came to the door and called him first. The old man and the woman were there to see the other doctors, obviously. He rose, and stepped through the door confidently, his shoulders back, head up. The nurse led him into an exam room, and asked the perfunctory questions about why he was here. He tossed something back in a confident voice about a CAT scan, and a mass in his kidney, watching her look at the paperwork in front of her. She had the damn test results right there, he thought, a little irritated. Why was she even asking him that?

She nodded, her face sympathetic, and took his blood pressure and temperature readings. She glanced at his ringless hand. "Do you have family?"

"I'm not married, no kids," replied Don. "My dad and my brother live in the area."

She smiled, with a commiserating look. "They're probably pretty freaked, huh?"

Don felt his gut twist. _What's wrong with her? Doesn't she realize that this might be benign? Why in the hell would she just assume…_ "I haven't told them yet." The words came from somewhere, of their own accord.

She nodded. "All right, the doctor will want to examine you. Please remove everything but your underpants, and put on the gown, tie in the back," she handed him a pale blue garment, "and he'll be right in."

She left, and Dom complied with the instructions. There was something dehumanizing about a hospital gown, he thought absently, as he put his arms through it. The garment turned a person into a specimen, a thing to be examined, manipulated; studied, like a lab rat. He sat on the edge of the exam bed, a sudden shiver passed through him, and he wrapped his arms around his torso, and waited.

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End Chapter Two


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

Dr. Atvani was a lean, mocha-skinned man in his late forties; he had dark hair shot with silver, and black, sharp eyes. He took a seat across from Don, looked through the paperwork, and asked him the same question the nurse had. "Mr. Eppes. Why are you here?" The voice was as intelligent as the eyes, the English nearly perfect.

Don began to feel the same irritation rising as he did when the nurse had questioned him, when he realized that they probably saw many patients, with many different levels of acumen. It was like questioning a suspect – ask them some basic questions to start with, to gauge their intelligence, their knowledge. The doctor was trying to read his level of competency, his comprehension of what was going on. "I've been having recurrent kidney infections," he replied evenly. "My doctor sent me for a CAT scan, and they tell me that I have a mass in my left kidney."

Atvani nodded; his eyes on the paperwork, his lips pursed. "Has your doctor given you an indication of what may be involved?"

"Not really," admitted Don. "Just that it could be either benign or malignant; and that there was probably no good way to tell for sure without surgery."

"You are aware of your blood work results?"

Don frowned slightly. "No. I haven't seen him since I got the labs done."

Atvani looked up from the paperwork. "Your mass is quite large – 11 centimeters at its largest point, and is irregular in shape. There appears to be something undefined at the edge of the renal capsule, which is composed of the kidney, a layer of fat, and fibrous tissue around the kidney. It was unclear from the scan what that is – whether or not it is an extension of the tumor or not. You are certainly looking at surgery here; even if this tumor is benign; it is so large that we need to remove it. If we find that it is malignant, we would need to remove the entire kidney."

He paused, as if waiting for a response. "Yeah," said Don uncertainly, "okay, I get that. Is there – disability involved, if I have only one kidney?"

Atvani shook his head. "No. Many people function very well, nearly normally, with only one kidney. I don't believe you will find that much of an issue." He glanced down at the paperwork again.

"So, uh," Don began tentatively, "can you get any idea from those results what might be going on?"

Atvani frowned, and looked back up at him. His voice and expression were deadpan, his gaze emotionless and direct. "Cancer is generally classified in stages, one through four."

Don nodded. "I'm aware of that. My mother died of cancer."

Atvani's eyes flickered, and Don knew what he was thinking. _Family history_. Atvani continued, smoothly. "With kidney cancer, stage one consists of a tumor completely enclosed in the kidney, of a diameter less than 2 and ¾ inches. Stage two is a tumor larger than that, but still contained only in the kidney. In stage three, the tumor has invaded the adrenal gland, or the layers of fat and fibrous tissue around the kidney, but has not invaded the lymph system, beyond a single node. Stage four, the tumor has progressed into the lymph system, or other organs."

He looked down at the paperwork again. "You realize that I cannot give you a true answer without surgery. Your blood work included a test for CA-125, a cancer marker, which came back borderline; slightly above normal. That test is only one indicator, and may or may not be accurate, due to a number of factors. But based on what I see in the CAT scan, the odds are that you have renal cell carcinoma, most likely stage three, possibly two or four. There is also still a possibility that the tumor is benign, but considering the size, the complexity, and the abnormality at the edge of the renal capsule, the chances of that are less. I would estimate that the chances that it is cancer are 80 percent."

Don's mouth was suddenly dry. He felt the same strange, icy-hot sensation that he'd felt in the ER, when he first learned of the mass. His voice came from somewhere, calm, matter of fact. "I realize that you're giving me an educated guess. What are the odds for stage three survival?"

Atvani's expression clouded. "Unfortunately, renal cell carcinoma is notoriously resistant to radiation and chemotherapy. Our best chances for curing it are to catch it early. Five year survival rate is around 60 percent for stage three."

Don's voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat. "And how about stage four?"

"Stage four survival rate drops to 5 to 15 percent."

Don stared. Five percent…a death sentence.

Atvani continued, smoothly. His calm voice indicated, clearly, that this was a job to him, routine; Don was just another lab rat in a hospital gown. Maybe that was good though, Don thought, as he struggled for composure. You'd want someone professional, cool-headed, when you were dealing with your life. Just like you would during a raid. He wrenched his attention back to what Atvani was saying, as man moved toward him.

"I would like to do a brief examination. Please take some deep breaths." Atvani held up his stethoscope, and placed it on Don's chest and back, listening intently. He then thumped lightly on his back over his kidneys, first on the right, then on the left. "Does this hurt?"

Don shook his head. "Not at all on the right, just a twinge on the left side."

Atvani instructed him to lie down and pressed lightly on his abdomen in several locations, with the same question. Don shook his head. "No."

Atvani stepped back, indicating the end of the brief exam, and Don sat up again. "Now, concerning the surgery," said Atvani, "It would begin with the removal of the tumor, which we would biopsy immediately, while you are still under. If it proves to be malignant, I would progress with a radical nephrectomy. That includes removal of the entire kidney, along with the adrenal gland and some of the tissue around the kidney. In that case, I would also remove some lymph nodes. If you agree with this, you can schedule the surgery today, after we are finished here. It would involve a hospital stay of at four to seven days."

"Yes," said Don, his voice still coming from that unknown stranger, who seemed to be in complete control of himself. "I want the surgery."

Atvani nodded, stood, and extended a hand. Don took it; it was firm, warm, comforting. A real human behind the professional mask. "Very well," said Atvani, "when you are dressed, please step out to the receptionist, and she will have you sit down with Susan."

Somehow - he didn't remember doing it - he got himself dressed. He sat calmly across from Susan, who was a pretty, professional young woman with an earnest smile. He smiled back, as she scheduled his pre-surgery appointment at the hospital for the next week, and the surgery for a week from Monday, and then went through a packet containing hospital information and pre- and post- surgery instructions.

"If you have any questions, just give us a call," she said sincerely, as he stood to leave, the confident smile still plastered on his face, and he nodded – acknowledgment and good-bye rolled into one.

He had only one question at the moment, he thought, as he stepped out into the parking deck, and it was one no one could answer until the day of surgery. Would he live, or would he die? He got into the car, and sat behind the wheel for a moment, just staring. One thing was certain; he was now one of them – one of the legions of people who had dealt with the possibility of cancer at some point in their lives. Some of them lived, some of them died, but they were connected by that common thread. He was now, firmly, with them, on the other side of the wall.

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"Don, you have to tell them." Megan's hand on his shoulder was comforting, her voice soft, but in it was urgency, the ring of conviction. It was Tuesday, and they sat alone in one of the conference rooms at the office.

He had avoided his father and Charlie all weekend, escaping to the office, devoutly glad that Liz was still gone. He told himself that he needed to work ahead; he'd be off for a while with the surgery, and he busied himself with reports and write-ups, trying to bury the feeling of dread that kept surfacing in spite of himself. He'd faced danger, hair-raising situations, many times before, too many to count, but this was different. In spite of the best medical technology the world had to offer, any time one dealt with cancer it was to some degree a crap shot, a spin of the roulette wheel, the outcome unknown. He'd never been in a situation that he couldn't control in some way – his destiny had always been, at least to a degree, in his own hands. Now it was not, and he didn't know how to deal with that.

He knew, even less, how to deal with telling his family. He knew the toll it had taken on all of them to lose his mother. His father had aged five years in the process, and Charlie…well; Charlie had nearly lost it. Alan and Margaret had taken his brother's retreat into his mind in stride, but it completely unnerved Don. He had been angry, he remembered, just as he'd been angry when Charlie retreated temporarily back into P vs. NP when he'd been shot. Don realized, much later, that the anger was primarily borne of fear – the fear that Charlie would lose it entirely – the fear that his brilliant mind was built, like many other brilliant minds, on something unstable, and would collapse under the strain – a breakdown, or worse. That thought had driven him away to neutral territory – the office, his apartment. His only contact with them was brief phone call to his father, to tell him he was swamped, and wouldn't be over that weekend.

He had told his team first thing Monday morning, after a quiet phone call to Merrick. He had gathered them into a conference room and shut the door, and laid out the facts calmly, in the same matter-of-fact tone he used when laying out the details of a new case. They were all professionals; and kept their composure, but he could see the shock in their eyes, the pity. Colby and David had offered their opinions, a little too heartily; that they were sure it would come out all right, and even Megan murmured some platitudes that they both knew were pointless. The looks on their faces made him feel even more alone, and a little frustrated. _I'm not dead yet,_ he wanted to say. They didn't even know if this was malignant yet. But the word cancer had such power; the mere possibility set one apart, stigmatized, like a leper. He might just as well have been branded with a big red C.

He gave them permission to tell the rest of the office – it was certainly easier than dealing with it himself, although he would as the situations arose. Colby and David had risen, a little awkwardly, and left the room, but Megan had stayed behind, wanting to know how he was doing, how Alan and Charlie were handling it. They weren't; he told her. He hadn't told them yet - he would that night, he said, and she had let the subject drop.

Now it was the next day, Tuesday morning, and she had cornered him in the conference room again, wanting to know how it had gone. When he had admitted that he still hadn't talked to them, her brow furrowed.

"Don, you're going in for surgery in less than a week. You don't think they're going to notice that?"

He rubbed his face wearily. "I know – I just don't know how to tell them." His eyes wandered to the opposite wall, and Megan could see pure pain in them. "I don't want to put them through this again."

"It's not something you can help," she said gently. "It_ is_ going to happen; they will find out whether you tell them or not. And Liz is back tomorrow – you'll need to tell her because the office knows. How do you think your Dad will feel if he finds out he's the last to know? Plus, it's not fair to drop it on them right before the surgery – they'll need at least a little time to process it. "

Don shook his head and sighed. "I know. I know I need to tell my dad, at least. He'll probably need to arrange to take some time off work himself. Charlie though…maybe it's best that he doesn't know until the last minute."

Megan pursed her lips. "Maybe you aren't giving him enough credit. You can use all the support you can get here, Don."

Don's lips tightened; and he shook his head even more emphatically. "Megan, you weren't around when my mom died. You didn't see him. It was – scary. I was pissed at him at first, but when I realized later it wasn't something he could help -," he broke off and looked at her as if looking for something, then looked away. The next words came out in a low voice. "I really thought for a while, that he'd gone permanently off his rocker. I thought that on top of losing Mom, Dad was going to have this – this nutcase to deal with. Charlie did it again, when I was shot. It was only for about a week, but I wasn't hurt that badly. This is going to be like Mom, all over again."

Megan's voice was brisk. "You don't know that yet. We're all banking on the possibility that this will be benign – you need to be too."

Don smiled grimly. "I don't need to remind you of the odds. That's the first question Charlie will ask, and you know it. What do you think he'll do when those numbers hit him?"

Megan looked at him, her eyes direct. "I realize that it'll be hard. But you're not being fair to him if you don't tell him – and you're not being fair to your dad, to ask him to keep it from him." She rose, and her voice softened. "I know you want to protect him, and I know it will be difficult to tell him, but I really think the alternative is worse." She smiled, sympathy mixed with resolve in her eyes. "You realize, I'll be in here again with you tomorrow morning, if you don't at least talk to your dad."

Don smiled back at her, ruefully. "You always were a tough negotiator. I promise. I will talk to him tonight."

She nodded, and squeezed his hand, which was resting on the table. "Good. Don't be such a tough guy. Let people help you out for a change." She left the conference room, and he sat staring at his hand, feeling the warmth of her grasp fade. The problem was, he didn't want help. He didn't want to be in a position where he needed help. All of it, the concern, the concept that he would need to be cared for, even briefly if things went well, made him feel guilty somehow.

He sighed, rose, and stepped out into the bullpen, trying to ignore the sympathetic eyes that turned his way. They were reminders that in spite of their best wishes, he was apart, an outsider, fighting something they couldn't comprehend, and truthfully didn't want to. He tried to fend off the cloud of loneliness that unexpectedly engulfed him, and he knew that Megan was right. Even if he didn't want sympathy, or help, he needed it – he needed to know that someone close to him was behind him. He sank into his seat, with a sudden longing for his father's strong arms.

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End Chapter 3


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

He left work a little earlier than usual Tuesday afternoon; God knew he had put in enough time over the weekend. That wasn't why he left, however. He knew there was usually a stretch in the late afternoon when his father had gotten home and Charlie wouldn't be there yet. Sometimes, if Charlie was immersed in something, that period was significant. If he timed this right, Don figured, he would get enough time with his father alone. He was sure he could convince Alan to hold off telling Charlie until the upcoming weekend.

In retrospect, the kitchen was probably not the best place for the talk. But that was where Alan was when Don walked in. He pushed through the door, and let it swing behind him. Alan was running water, busy at the sink, and hadn't heard him come in. He started when he heard Don's voice. "Hey, Dad."

He half turned, his eyebrows raised, a smile coming to his face. "Oh, hey there, Donnie." He flicked off the water and reached for a towel, and turned. "About time you showed up here. How's work?"

"Okay," murmured Don. He looked at his feet, then up at his father. Alan was trying to read his expression, the smile dying and concern surfacing in his eyes. Don met his eyes squarely. "I, uh, I've got something to tell you. Maybe you should sit down."

Real alarm sparked in Alan's eyes, and he waved at the chairs impatiently, standing where he was with his back to the sink. "That's all right. What is it, son?"

Don suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands, and he stuffed them in his pockets. God, this was hard. Why in the hell hadn't he waited another day or two? "Well, you know that, uh, kidney problem I've been having…"

"Yes," said Alan, just a bit sharply. Fear made the words come out with a rush. "You were going to see the doctor."

"Yeah, well, I went for a CAT scan." Don swallowed and forced the words out. "I've got a mass, a pretty big one, in my left kidney. The doctor says I need surgery."

Alan paled, and stared for a moment, his mouth too dry to speak. His next words came out with a croak. "Do they know – do they know what it is?"

Don shook his head. "They won't know for sure until they do the surgery. I saw a specialist on Friday. He says it's maybe, like, eighty percent chance that it's cancer…"

The last sentence came out in a mumble, and Alan felt his heart lurch. "What? What percent?"

Don cleared his throat, a little loudly, and neither of them heard the front door over the sound. "Eighty percent."

Alan fought down the huge balloon of fear that seemed to be expanding in his chest, and the sting of tears that came with it. He sagged against the counter, dishcloth drooping from his hand, then pushed away suddenly, and enveloped Don in a crushing hug. "It'll be okay, Donnie," he whispered past the lump in his throat, trying to convince himself as much as his son. _God, not again, not Donnie. Why are you doing this to us?_ The terror expanded until he couldn't speak, could do nothing but hang on his oldest son for dear life, tears springing to his eyes.

Don clung back; his father's solid frame felt like a rock, and he hung on gratefully. Now that it was finally out, he realized how much emotion he had been burying, and how good it felt to have some support. Something let go inside, a huge feeling of release, and with it came tears of his own. But along with the feeling came another, a cloud of crushing guilt for putting his father through this, and it sparked a different thought. He spoke through the tears, in his father's ear. "Just don't tell Charlie, okay? Not yet."

His back was to the kitchen door, but he heard it swing open, and his heart dropped to his feet. He broke away from Alan and turned, and they both stood staring at the white-faced apparition in the doorway, his eyes huge and dark.

"What?" said, Charlie, his voice a little breathless and husky with fear. His eyes devoured their grief-stricken faces, the eyes, suspiciously bright, as they stared back, at a loss for words. "Tell me what?"

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Don looked at Alan as if for help, and his father shook his head. "You need to tell him," he said softly.

"Tell me what?" Charlie demanded, his voice rising. "What's going on? Are you getting transferred, what?"

Don looked back at him and swallowed hard. "Let's go outside, Buddy." Charlie just stared at him, and Don stepped forward and put an arm around his shoulders, steering him toward the back door. He felt like he was leading a sheep to the slaughter. Alan watched them go, through the door, then looked through the window, as they walked over to the bench at the koi pond, and sat. The balloon in his chest had continued to expand as he watched, creeping up in his throat, and suddenly burst outward in a rush of strangled tears. He staggered over to the kitchen table, his face buried in one hand, somehow finding a chair and sinking into it, his sobs exploding in choking gasps.

They sat, Charlie still staring at him white-faced, and Don glanced away, unable to face the dark eyes. He looked at the fish, drifting lazily, serenely around the pond. "You, uh, know I had the kidney infections, right?" He hazarded a glance sideways.

Charlie barely moved, his eyes still fixed. His nod was almost imperceptible. "Yeah."

Don looked back at the fish, his jaw working. Damn, he had not wanted to do this so soon. He took at deep breath. "I've got a tumor, Charlie. A tumor in my left kidney, a pretty big one. I'm going for surgery Monday."

There was dead silence, and he looked sideways again. Charlie was still staring, but the eyes were already swimming with the frantic thoughts that Don knew were starting inside the enigma that was his brother's mind. "What kind of tumor?" The words came out with a slight rasp, but Don was heartened a little by his brother's relative calmness.

He straightened a little and looked directly at his brother. "I saw a specialist on Friday. He won't know until they take it out."

Charlie's chin lifted a little, and he cocked his head sideways. It was an awkward gesture that he made when he was uncomfortable, or genuinely distressed, and it had always freaked Don out just a little. It wasn't a big gesture, and most people would probably not even notice it, but it Don knew it wasn't something under Charlie's control. It was a tic, a twitch, and it reminded him of the involuntary movements he'd seen made by crazy people, in the asylum. Charlie's voice was calm, but the eyes were no longer all there. The cocked head, the unfocused eyes… the retreat was already beginning. "What kind of odds are we talking, here?" The question came out calmly, but Don could hear the dread behind it.

Don spoke softly, his eyes fully on Charlie now, watching him carefully. "Eighty percent chance that it's malignant," he said quietly.

Charlie blinked, but the eyes remained unfocused. He looked at the koi pond. "Eighty percent," he repeated dully, and quiver ran through him. He looked back again, head still cocked, but the eyes had changed a little; Don could see desperation creeping in.

"Does he know how far – what stage?" This time the words came out as a whisper.

"He thinks stage three," Don said softly. Numbers, put it in numbers for him. "Sixty percent five-year survival rate."

Charlie turned toward him so suddenly that Don started, and clung to him in a fierce hug, his arms around Don's ribcage. He was trembling, shaking like a leaf, and Don's heart twisted. His voice came muffled from Don's chest. "It'll be okay, Donnie, it's gonna be okay." The voice was desperate, as if Charlie was trying to persuade himself. He broke free just as suddenly and looked intensely at Don, his eyes almost deranged. "Twenty percent isn't that bad really," he said with suppressed ferocity, his voice defensive. He stood and pulled Don up, and put an arm around him in a gesture of comfort. "It's not that bad, you'll have to deal with the surgery, sure, but once you recover – you know people live just fine with one kidney…"

He babbled all the way back to the kitchen, his arm still around Don, as if they were having a casual conversation about the weather. The unfocused eyes, the incessant stream of words, and the uncontrollable shaking made it clear, however, that Charlie was only just holding it together, on the verge of cracking, and Don's eyes stung with tears. _God, I didn't want to do this to them, I didn't want to do this…_

His eyes met his father's as he entered the kitchen, and they exchanged a wordless look of sorrow over Charlie's words, spoken with sickening optimism. "Twenty percent chance it's benign, dad, Donnie'll make it; he's defied the odds before…" He launched into a recount of the time Don had been shot; Charlie had been convinced his survival was an anomaly, and this time would be no different, he said. Donnie always defied the odds.

Don could feel a wave of grief rising, that threatened to pull him under, and gave Charlie's shoulder a squeeze. "I'm going to go lie down for a while," he managed, and pulled away, moving toward the kitchen door, leaving Charlie still standing there, muttering frenetically to himself about the positive effects of Don's age and good health on the outcome. Alan shot an uncertain glance at Charlie; then pushed through the kitchen door after Don, who was already on his way up the stairs.

Charlie seemed barely to notice they were gone; he turned and pushed through the back door, and strode rapidly for the garage. Survival rates were calculated on an average population, which included old people, and people with existing health conditions. He would look up existing data, and recalculate survival rates based on Don's age and good health. The thoughts whirled through his head, as he opened the door with a still-shaking hand.

He flicked the light on, and walked with slowing steps to the center of the room, then stopped, just staring at the chalkboard several feet in front of him, still trembling. As his mind disengaged from the numbers, the realization hit him, belatedly, that he was alone; the hopeful speech, the façade wasn't necessary, and as soon as it did, a horrible yawning maw of grief opened and swallowed him, utterly and completely. He staggered suddenly, and dropped to his knees, his body shaking with sobs that emerged from the depths of his soul, his heart racked with a pain that made it feel that it had been torn in two, and was turning itself inside-out. "Please no," he moaned, rocking on his knees with his eyes closed, tears streaming down his face. The moan weakened to a whisper as he rocked, filled with pain. "Not Donnie, too. Please no, please no …"

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Charlie came in an hour later, and Alan looked up with surprise. To be honest, he had expected his youngest to stay out in the garage for the rest of the evening, and Alan was in the process of fixing him a sandwich. It had been slow going; his mind seemed to be derailed by grief and terror, and he had made it halfway through the sandwich before he realized he had slathered on a hefty helping of pure horseradish, which Don loved, but Charlie detested. His thoughts strayed back to his brief conversation with his oldest in the bedroom. Don had declined food, saying he needed a nap, and Alan had hovered for a moment or two while his son had settled himself.

Don had looked up at him sadly. "That's why I didn't want to tell him," he had said, and Alan knew that he was referring to Charlie's frantic disjointed conversation, and the escape to the garage. It was beginning already, said Don's expression, and Alan couldn't argue with him; Charlie's reaction was nearly identical to how he behaved when they got Margaret's diagnosis.

Now, looking at his youngest son as he stepped in from the garage, he wasn't so sure. Charlie's face was pale and his eyes were dry, but they were swollen from crying. That in itself was departure; Charlie hadn't cried when he had gotten the news that his mother had cancer; the denial was so strong; his immersion into his own world so complete, that he fended off tears for many weeks. And he never stepped out of the garage willingly; he ate there and slept there, and Alan had to force him out for showers and clean clothes.

They faced each other in silence for a moment, and Alan tried to read the expression in Charlie's eyes. His son was still not all there; the eyes were still focused on something inward, but he seemed reasonably in command of himself. _'I probably don't look any better,'_ Alan thought ruefully. He cleared his throat. "I was making you a sandwich," he offered, a bit lamely.

Charlie stared at it, as if it had just materialized unexpectedly under his father's hands. "That's okay," he said, his voice hoarse. "I'm not hungry. Where's Donnie?"

"He's lying down," said Alan. Charlie nodded, and turned toward the door, but Alan stopped him. "We still don't know, Charlie. This could be benign. There's no sense worrying about this yet."

Charlie looked back toward him, but not at him, and nodded absently, then pushed through the door. Alan stepped behind him as it swung shut, and opened it, watching Charlie trudge upstairs. He drew a deep breath of relief. Clearly, Charlie seemed to be handling this a bit better than he had with Margaret – at least so far. He was obviously shaken, but at least he wasn't in the garage.

Three hours later, he wasn't so sure. Don still hadn't come downstairs, and Alan had decided that both of his sons must be down for the night. He flicked off the TV; he hadn't been watching it but had left it on with sound down low; the background noise seemed comforting somehow. He turned off the lights and made his way upstairs in the darkness, feet finding their way from old habit. As he began to step down the hall past Don's room, he stopped dead, his heart in his throat, as he nearly ran into the motionless figure in the hall.

He stepped forward a little, and the faint light that came from the window in Don's room illuminated a pale face, the eyes smudges of black in the darkness.

"Charlie," Alan whispered, "I thought you were in bed."

"Just going to the bathroom," Charlie mumbled, and turned toward the room itself, not bothering to explain why he had walked past it, and stood staring into his brother's room.

Alan waited until he was done, and went in himself. When he came out, the hallway was empty, and Charlie's door was closed. Still not quite trusting that his son hadn't escaped to the garage, Alan stepped to open it and peeked in. He could see Charlie's form, curled in his bed in the dim light of the room, and backing away, he closed the door. Moving quietly back down the hall, he stepped into Don's room, and stood silently for a moment, listening with tears in his eyes to the sound of the regular breathing. Finally, he turned and shut the door softly behind him, and headed wearily toward his own room.

Charlie turned on his back as the door shut, and stared at the ceiling. He lay there for a moment; then sprang out of bed, pacing, assailed by old memories. His Cognitive Emergence work had made him aware of what a powerful healing aid the mind could be; the effect it had on other systems in the body. Knowing that now, he wondered if he'd hurt his mother's chances by not being by her side – did he contribute to her stress? Maybe the added worry he'd created had been enough to tip the scale the wrong way - if he'd only stayed with her… The thought engulfed him in a fresh wave of grief, so strong it almost dropped him to his knees, and he turned and leaned over the end of the bed, stiff-armed, for support, then sank down as sobs erupted again, his face buried in the comforter.

Finally, he sat up shaking. He was still terrified, so scared he couldn't think straight; his mind was a whirling cauldron. Normally, when this happened, immersing himself in work was the only thing that could channel his thoughts, that would allow him to get a grip, but he knew this time it would be different, even if it killed him. No matter what, he would stay by his brother's side. He got up again, still pacing restlessly, but with new conviction. His feet carried him out the door, and he padded quietly back to his brother's room, and pushed open the door, quietly. The sound of Don's breathing came through the quiet, and Charlie felt a little of the panic subside. He backed away against the hallway wall, and slid down it to a sitting position. He could still see Don's recumbent form; still hear the comforting sound of his breathing. He'd stay with Donnie, no matter what.

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End Chapter 4


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The grayness of dawn crept through the house, and Charlie heard the stirring in his father's room that meant that Alan was up. He un-wrapped his arms from around his knees and rose stiffly, with a hand on the wall behind him to steady himself. He'd nodded off a few times, but each time only for a moment; as soon as he started to drop off he felt a rush of panic, and woke wide-eyed, listening for Don's breathing. He kept telling himself that he should go to bed, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to do it. Just being able to look at his brother, to hear the sound of his regular breaths, seemed to fight off the fear somehow. He knew he wouldn't have gotten any more sleep in his own room.

He grabbed clothes and made it into the shower before his father, and went downstairs. It was too early to get Millie, but he called her anyway, and left a message, telling her he would be working off campus for the next few days. He hesitated, wondering if he should say more, but he wasn't sure he could get the words out, so he hung up. He'd tell her later, or maybe his father would.

He could still feel unbearable bursts of panic rising up without warning, and he went out into the kitchen to start breakfast; to do anything that would take his mind off it. With shaking hands, he began to crack eggs into a bowl.

Don came down forty minutes later; feeling surprisingly rested, and was taken aback to find his father in the kitchen, reading the paper at the table, and Charlie fussing around, making toast and stirring eggs in a skillet. Sectioned grapefruit halves sat on the table. He shot a closer look at his brother; Charlie looked like hell – he had dark circles under his eyes, which still had that odd, unfocused look, and his hands were shaking. He was constantly in motion, darting back and forth from the counter to the stove, and he rushed over to the coffee pot as soon as he saw Don, pouring a mug so full that the coffee sloshed over the sides as he delivered it to the table.

"Hey, Donnie," he said, looking at him anxiously. "How do you feel?"

Don's lip curled in a bemused grin, but his forehead furrowed creased a little. "Fine, Charlie, I'm fine."

He accepted the coffee with murmured thanks, and Charlie darted back to the stove. "Eggs are almost ready. You need to eat a good breakfast."

Don raised an eyebrow at Alan, who shook his head at him over the sports page. Don took a sip of coffee, and tried to keep his face expressionless as he watched Charlie. His brother was a bundle of nervous energy, but at least he was with them, and not off in some twilight zone of calculations. He felt sad and a little heartened at the same time – he still felt guilty for putting them through this, but maybe it would be a little easier on them this time. Hell, maybe it wasn't even cancer…

"Thanks Charlie," he said, as Charlie put a huge dish of scrambled eggs in front of him, and dished up some to Alan. "Why don't you sit down?"

Charlie grabbed a mug and poured coffee, and sat, his body still radiating tension. He stared at Don as he forked up some eggs, both hand clutching his mug. Don took a mouthful, and looked back at him. "Aren't you going to eat?"

Charlie shook his head. "Already ate."

Alan spoke for the first time, his eyes sharp. "Are you sure?"

Charlie turned to look at him as if he'd forgotten he was there. "Yeah. I had toast." He declined to mention that he'd only managed to get one bite down; it had stuck in his throat and nearly gagged him.

Don shot him a speculative look. "What happened to needing a good breakfast?"

Charlie looked back at him. "That's for you. I'm not the one…" He looked stricken, and the words trailed off. He changed the subject, abruptly. "I'm going to work from home today, in case you need anything."

Don looked at him, puzzled. "That's fine, Charlie, but I'm going in to work."

"Work?" Charlie looked at him, then at Alan, then back again. "You should be off, shouldn't you? You should be resting up before your surgery – flu season's starting, there's no sense exposing yourself to germs-,"

Don shook his head with an exasperated grin. "Charlie, I appreciate the concern, but I'm fine, and I have a lot of stuff to wrap up before the end of the week." He was already full, but he dug into the grapefruit to appease Charlie, who was staring back at him, blankly.

Charlie plunked down his coffee mug and rose from the table suddenly. "In that case," he announced, "I'm going to change," and he pushed through the kitchen door.

Don looked after him frowning, then faced his father and shook his head. "Maybe he's better off in the garage."

Alan allowed a small smile to creep to his face. "He's trying, Donnie – just humor him." He looked at Don thoughtfully. "How _are_ you feeling, today?"

Don looked back at him, and lifted a shoulder in a slight shrug. "I'm good, Dad, I feel great. I feel so good, I just keep thinking – this has to be benign, you know…,"

Alan nodded and smiled. "Just hold that thought." He stood, and started to clear away plates, because he could feel his smile wavering, and a lump rising in his throat. Margaret had felt fine too, had walked around with cancer for months before they knew it was there. He stacked plates in the sink, his back to Don. "Your brother sure knows how to make a mess."

Don rose, and looked at Alan's back. "Hey, I was wondering if maybe I could, uh, hang out here for the next few days. I think it might make Charlie feel a little better, if I was around." '_Who am I kidding? It'd make me feel better…' _He hated to admit it, but he needed the security, the support, more than he'd thought he would.

Alan found the smile again, and turned. "I would certainly hope you would. And you'll need to stay after you come home from the hospital too."

Don nodded, "Yeah, I know. They'll want someone with me for a day or two after the surgery…," He shook his head, and Alan saw a flash of guilt pass over his face. "I'm sorry, Dad, about all of this…"

Alan came forward, and enveloped him in a solid hug. "Nonsense," he whispered, as tears started to his eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to find his voice. "That's what family's for. We're here for you son, don't ever feel badly about that. The only thing you need to concentrate on is getting better."

He released his grip and held Don at arm's length, a question in his eyes. "Have you told Liz?"

Don shook his head. "She's been out of town for the last week and a half. She gets in this evening – I'm going to pick her up at the airport. I'll tell her tonight."

Alan let his arms drop, but held his gaze, earnestly. "Tell her that she's welcome here, too – I know Charlie doesn't mind."

Don nodded gratefully. "Yeah, Dad, thanks, I'll tell her that." He gave his father a quick hug. "I've got to get going – I'll see you tonight – don't worry about dinner for me; I'll probably eat with Liz, then come over later." He turned and pushed through the door, and Alan stood there, staring at it, long after he had gone.

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They started the morning off with a meeting in the conference room, going over the latest case, a string of arsons in Muslim-owned small businesses. As Don brought up the screen, Colby motioned toward the bullpen. "Hey, did you want Charlie in here for this?"

Don turned frowning. "Charlie? I -," he broke off as he saw his brother, making his way through the office, toward an empty desk. He shook his head. "Excuse me for a minute."

He made his way out of the conference room, and walked up as Charlie was pulling his laptop out of his case. He tried to temper his words with a smile. "Hey, Buddy, what are you doing here?"

Charlie looked up, and something like relief flashed in his face as he saw Don. "Well, I called in to tell Millie I was working from home, and it occurred to me that I can work just as well from here." He looked over Don's shoulder, at his team in the conference room. "In fact, if there's anything you want me to help you with-,"

Don took a deep breath. "Charlie, you don't need to do this."

Charlie looked back at him, and his hands started playing nervously with his jacket button. Don could see the beginnings of panic in his eyes. "Don't need to do what?"

Don stared at him a minute, then sighed. '_What can it hurt?_' he thought. "Nothing," he said quietly, and sent Charlie a small smile. "Hang out as long as you want."

Charlie nodded and sank gratefully into the chair, and Don walked away, with a warm feeling starting in his heart. He suspected what it was costing his brother to keep from retreating into the oblivion of his calculations, and the fact that he was trying so hard to stay connected made him feel comforted somehow. He shot a glance back over his shoulder, and caught Charlie watching him. Okay, maybe a little claustrophobic, but comforted.

They made short work of the data in front of them; they had only the bare facts, and needed more information. That meant legwork, examining the sites, looking for witnesses, and shortly, Colby and David were on their way out. Megan lingered for a moment, and spoke, with a glance at Charlie. "I take it you told them," she said.

Don looked out through the glass toward his brother. "Yeah, I hadn't meant to tell Charlie, but he walked in while I was talking to Dad."

Megan watched the dark curly head, bent over the laptop. Charlie shot a surreptitious glance their way, and she looked back at Don. "He looks like he's handling it okay."

Don smiled, a bit ruefully. "Yeah, he's a little clingy, in fact it's driving me a little nuts, but I guess that's better than the alternative."

She smiled. "Actually, I think it's kind of sweet."

His eyes fell on Charlie again, and he couldn't help the twinge of fear. Last night, Charlie had looked a ready to crack, and there was still something unsettling in his eyes. He felt the guilt rising again. "Yeah, I guess so." He looked at her, heading off her next question. "I'm talking to Liz tonight – I'm picking her up at the airport at 5:30."

"Good," she nodded, with an approving smile. "Now admit it – don't you feel better, now that they know?"

Don looked out at Charlie, doubtfully. "Yeah," he said, "I guess so."

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He felt the wall that day, more than ever. Everywhere he turned, every discussion had some kind of planning in it – whether it was scheduling a meeting for next week, or the snatch of conversation about someone planning a ski trip to the Rockies over the holidays. They were all on the right side of the wall – the side where you planned without question, lived each little moment in the comfortable knowledge that life, as you knew it, would continue. He was on the wrong side – he couldn't plan a thing past Monday – he had no idea what would be in store if they found cancer. If it was bad enough, he might not even be around for the holidays. In spite of Charlie's comforting, if somewhat smothering presence, he could feel loneliness creeping back.

He had eaten lunch with Charlie; his brother had run out before lunch hour and brought back a feast. Charlie ate little of it himself, babbling incessantly about the importance of anti-oxidants in one's diet, and Don had stuffed himself with salad and eggplant to pacify him. It was approaching time to head for the airport now, and he had a raging case of indigestion, which he tried to blame on Charlie's lunch. He knew, deep down, though, that it was anxiety. Of all the people that he had to tell, Liz was the biggest question.

He had no idea how she would take this. Part of him hoped desperately that she would stick by him, and part of him hoped she would decide to call their relationship off. He cared too much, he realized, either way. He couldn't stand the thought of losing her, but if she cared enough to stick with him, he couldn't stand the thought of putting yet another person that he loved through this.

He was trying to convince a frantic-looking Charlie that he didn't need a driver to get Liz at the airport, when Megan stepped in and pulled Charlie aside for a quiet conversation. Don escaped, gratefully, tossing an assurance to Charlie that he'd be over later, and headed for his car in the parking lot at a trot. He drove like a man possessed – by what, and why, he didn't know, and arrived at the curb a few minutes early. He was just starting to get suspicious stares from security when she appeared, pulling her bag behind her.

They stopped for takeout – food was the last thing he wanted, but Liz was starved, and then they headed for her place. She was quiet on the ride, but seemed in a good mood, smiling, glad to see him. He'd fix that, he thought morosely. No better way to ruin a good evening. '_Hey, honey, guess what, I've got a tumor …_'

He kissed her when they got in, and held her close – God, she felt good. He'd missed her more than he cared to admit. She smiled up at him, and broke away, moving toward the sofa. She sat, and patted the cushion next to her. "Come here," she said, and he moved and sat next to her. She took hold of his hand awkwardly and glanced at him sideways, suddenly seeming a little nervous. "I've got something that I need to tell you," she said.

He looked back at her, his heart starting to thump. "Yeah, me too," he said.

Her expression faltered a little, and she stared at him. "You first," they both said at once, then she smiled, but it was tight, thin.

'_She's going to dump me_,' Don realized suddenly, his heart dropping. That funny, tight little smile – Robin had looked the same way before she broke it off. He knew then that he definitely needed her to go first – she might not say what was really on her mind out of pity for him, if he told her his news. "Go ahead," he said, his voice a bit raspy. He cleared his throat.

She looked at him, then at her lap. "Well, I went home to try to straighten some things out – I just needed to talk to my family, you know, and sort some things out in my mind."

Don looked down at his own lap, and waited for the blow.

He felt her look up at him. "I guess I needed to know where I was myself with this, before I told you. I'm pregnant."

He jerked his head up and stared at her. She was looking at him anxiously. "I want you to know, that I've decided to keep the baby, but I don't hold you responsible – you can be as involved as you want – I'm willing to get married if you want – or not is okay too…," her voice trailed off uncertainly.

A strange mix of joy and agony hit him. He was going to be a father – he knew suddenly that he'd never wanted anything more in his life, and the awful irony of it all – that he'd finally found a woman to spend his life with, to have children with – and now it might be taken away… He gasped suddenly, and put a shaking hand to his face, as he started to cry, and laugh at the same time.

Liz stared at him, nonplussed, and he felt her grip tighten on his other hand. "Are you all right?"

He struggled for control, running a hand over his face, and turned and put his arms around her. "I'm not sure," he whispered in her hair. "But I love you, I do know that." He felt her arms come around him, and hold him tightly, and after a long moment, they separated. Tears were shimmering in her eyes.

"I love you too," she said. She paused for a minute, trying to read his face. "I understand if you don't want to get married, it's okay-," She was trying to sound determined, but Don could tell from her tone how hard it was for her to say that, and he stopped her.

"It's not that," he said, trying hard to speak around the lump in his throat. "You don't know what you're getting into- I don't even know yet-,'

Her brows came together. "Know what?"

He looked at her sadly. "I went to the doctor while you were gone, for my kidney infections. I have a tumor in my left kidney. I'm going for surgery Monday."

She stared at him, stunned into silence for a moment. When she spoke, she could only manage one word. "Tumor?"

He nodded; he knew what she was asking, and he explained, reluctantly. "The doctor said that there's an 80 percent chance that it's cancer. He won't know for sure until they take it out." He watched the shock, then the grief come over her face. He felt like an executioner – with a few words, he had managed to kill her hopes, her happy news. He swallowed hard. "I don't expect you to stick around if it's cancer – you're young, you'll have the baby coming-,"

It was the word 'baby' that did it – a rush of tears overwhelmed him again, and he hid his face with a shaking hand. '_Get a grip, Eppes. You're not making this any easier on her.'_

"What kind of person do you think I am?" Her angry words brought his head up, and he stared at her. Tears were streaming down her face, too, but she made no move to brush them away. "I love you, Don Eppes. I don't care, even if it is cancer. I want you – I want to marry you – even if it was only for a week, a day – I don't care. I'm not going anywhere – I love you…," Her passionate words began to fade on the last sentence, and she suddenly burst into tears, and put her head in hands.

Don roused himself from his stare, and put his arms around her, pulling her against his chest. He held her for a moment without a word, and as her sobs began to subside, he spoke quietly. "I'm not sure, but I think I've just been proposed to."

That brought a half-laugh, half-sob from her and she sat back, wiping her face. "Damn straight," she said, smiling a little through the tears. "So what are you going to do about it?"

He looked at her and shook his head. "You really should take some time to think about this-,"

She shook her head. "What's to think about? I love you; I want to spend the rest of my life with you, or however long we might have. And there's the baby. I know I shouldn't just assume you want a baby-,"

"I want a baby," he interrupted her softly, taking her hand. "I want your baby."

She stared back at him for a moment, losing her train of the thought at the look in his eyes; the love radiating from them, then pulled herself together, continuing with her argument. "Then the baby should have a father, don't you think?" She stopped there, and looked at him, not knowing what else to say.

He looked back at her. "You know I can't tell you how long we might have."

She nodded. "I know that. It doesn't matter – other than I think we should take advantage of the time we do have."

Don pulled her close again, and kissed her, softly, a long, gentle, lingering kiss. "Then I say yes," he whispered in her ear. "I'll marry you."

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End Chapter 5


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

When Charlie finally headed for the garage, Alan was almost relieved. His younger son had set up his laptop on the dining room table, but couldn't seem to stay at it for long. He would spring up, pacing, wheel around and bend over the computer, then turn and pace some more. He sat on the sofa, hands clasped over his knees, rocking; then paced a little more; then it was back to the computer. At the end of two hours of this, Alan swore his son must have worn a rut in the floor, and when Don called to say he wasn't coming over after all, Alan approached Charlie, who was in the middle of a pacing session, with trepidation. At the news, Charlie's shoulders slumped a little, and despondency and a hint of panic mingled in his eyes.

Alan guided him gently to the sofa. "Charlie, you need to slow down a little. Take a break; we'll go out and get something to eat. You won't help Donnie by running yourself into the ground."

Charlie shook his head, and looked at his father, with a hint of a plea in his expression. "He shouldn't be alone right now. He needs us – he needs our support -,"

Alan sighed. He suspected that Don wasn't going to be alone that night, but in truth, he wasn't sure. Don was too much of a gentleman to tell him outright that he was spending the night with Liz. "Charlie, Donnie's a grown man – he can decide if he needs us or not – and he's with Liz right now, he's not alone. I'm sure he'll be over tomorrow."

He looked at Charlie with concern. His son looked exhausted, and Alan knew by the disjointed look in his eyes that his son's mind was spinning, focused on something else. Alan had a feeling that Charlie was holding it together, just barely, only for Don's sake, and that was confirmed when Charlie stood suddenly, grabbed his laptop, and headed for the garage. He'd been waiting for Don, Alan realized, and with no Don, there was nothing to keep him in the house. He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. '_Maybe a_ _little time out there will do him good_,' he thought. '_Get it out of his system_.'

He wasn't so sure at midnight, before he went up to bed, and peeked in at his son, rapping away frantically with chalk on one of his boards. His entreaties for Charlie to go up to bed fell on deaf ears, and he sighed and shook his head, closing the door and heading for the stairs. '_Just like Margaret_,' he thought morosely. When Charlie was like this, he would only sleep when he was too exhausted to continue; there was no sense even trying to herd him upstairs.

The next morning, he slept in, sidelined himself by a restless night, and it was nearly 9:30 when he got to the garage. As he opened the door, it was quiet, and he felt a momentary flare of relief; he hoped to see Charlie sleeping on the sofa. To his concern, his son was still standing; staring at one of the chalkboards. He moved toward it, robot-like, and began to write again, but the frantic pace was slowed by fatigue. Alan watched him for a moment. He'd never understood this – this retreat, this complete immersion that claimed his son, not like Margaret had, but he had reluctantly come to accept it. He didn't like it; it scared him a little, but he had come to the conclusion that it was part of Charlie, and you lived with it, like it or not. He turned away, wondering, not for the first time, how much of this side of Charlie his son had let Amita see.

As he stumped wearily into the kitchen to make coffee, the doorbell rang, and when he opened the door, to his surprise there she was, along with Millie and Larry. He had called Millie yesterday and filled her in on the details, and either she or Charlie must have talked to Larry and Amita. They came in, smiling uncertainly, bearing food; bagels, Danish, and a sandwich ring that looked like it could feed an army.

"How's he doing?" asked Amita, looking around.

Alan smiled at her. "Don, or Charlie?"

She colored, and smiled back. "I was talking about Don."

Alan took the sandwich ring from Millie and headed toward the kitchen, speaking over his shoulder, as they trailed behind him. "Don's actually not here right now, but he seemed fine yesterday. Charlie's out in the garage, go ahead on out. I'll make some coffee."

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Charlie sank wearily onto the sofa, staring at the last chalkboard he'd been working on. The wheels were still spinning, but were seemingly mired in sludge; the sludge of fatigue; the effects of next to no sleep over the past two nights. He kept fading off, finding himself staring blankly at his work, only to remember suddenly why he was doing this, and the sudden surge of terror would galvanize him into motion again. When the door opened, it didn't even register, until he head Amita's soft voice, and Larry's tentative "Charles."

Amita's brow furrowed with concern at the sight of him; he looked exhausted, and the eyes he turned toward her were filled with despair. She sank down onto the sofa next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. "Hey," she said, "how are you doing?"

Charlie just stared back at her for a moment; then rubbed his face, addressing both of them. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

Larry contemplated him for a moment, then scratched his head, and wandered over to the chalkboards. "Stage Two," the first one was labeled. He looked to his right to see "Stage One." Stages Three and Four were on chalkboards to his left. He stepped closer. He could hear Amita murmuring quietly to Charlie behind him as he focused on the board. Graphs, a series of extrapolations, equations adapted from general findings for the population, modified for a man of thirty-eight, in good health. At the bottom, percentages, five-year survival rates, more than one grouping, probably calculated separately depending on the data sources. Stage Four's percentages were dismal, no matter which data source they had come from. '_Not exactly the healthiest of endeavors to be consumed with, Charles,_' he thought to himself, but he kept it to himself. He had seen his friend while he was dealing with his mother's death, and was saddened and concerned, but frankly not surprised.

He turned and stepped over to Charlie, giving him an awkward pat on the arm, and headed out of the garage. Megan had teased him about his inability to pick up on nonverbal clues when it came to people, but as he looked at Amita, with her arm around Charlie, whispering soothingly in his ear, even he could see that he was not only extraneous; but that he perhaps even detracted from the situation.

Sometime later, Alan came out to the garage to try to roust Charlie from his lair and into the kitchen for breakfast. He was greeted by the sight of his son, leaning on Amita, fast asleep, as she gently stroked his curls. He turned, went back into the house, and grabbed a mug of coffee; he knew how Amita took it; she had been spending enough time there lately. He brought it out and offered it to her in silence, and she returned his smile gratefully, taking it with her free hand. As he went back into the kitchen, he knew that he needn't have worried if Amita had seen this side of his son before. It was apparent that she had an ability to deal with it that surpassed his own, and rivaled Margaret's. He felt the load lighten, just a little.

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On Monday morning, they made the drive to the hospital in darkness, Alan at the wheel, Don in the passenger seat; Charlie slumped in the back seat behind them. Don shivered a little; he wondered why on earth they had to be at the hospital so early. They wanted him at the hospital at 6:00 a.m.; his surgery was scheduled for 8:00. Two hours – for what? The car was silent, and he had an overwhelming urge to tell them how much he loved them, just in case…

Speaking the words seemed like acknowledging the possibility that he might not make it, even inviting bad luck somehow, and he worried how Charlie would take it. Instead, he rode quietly, with the odd comment here and there about the lack of traffic at that hour, and other innocent topics. Keep it light; Charlie was miserable enough, and let's face it, thought Don, I'm scared shitless. Try not to think about it…

Liz was there to meet them at the entrance, and her hug was solid, reassuring. They had agreed that they wouldn't tell anyone about the baby, or getting married, until Don got through the surgery and they knew what they were dealing with. The feeling of her body against his and the knowledge of the life inside it almost brought tears to his eyes, and he hid them with an effort. Soon he would know for sure – whether or not he would be permanently on the other side of the wall from the people he loved, watching them, knowing he wasn't a part of them, even as he faded away.

Still trying to control the tears that threatened, he walked with one arm around Liz, and with the other, he reached out and ruffled Charlie's curls reassuringly. Charlie turned his head, and the look in his eyes nearly broke him; but Don looked back steadily and smiled. "It's going to be okay, Buddy," he said softly. "I can feel it."

Charlie nodded numbly, and looked back down at the floor as they made their way to the surgery admitting area.

They sat together in a waiting area as Don filled out a form detailing his belongings. He could hear the idle talk from other people around the room. An old man there for a hip replacement, a kid for knee surgery, a woman for a D&C. No one for anything life-threatening. They weren't on that side of the wall. No one but him.

All too soon, they called him back. He stood, and they hugged him, a quick embrace and a smile, eyes bright with suppressed tears. Couldn't get emotional in front of all these people. He'd see them again before he went in for surgery, he had been told, so it wasn't good-bye anyway. They sat again, their eyes on him as he walked away, except for Charlie, who stared miserably at the floor, his arms wrapped around his middle.

A few moments later Don was shivering in his hospital gown, lying on the gurney in a curtained bay. A progression of people came in; calm, smiling, and he answered them in kind – confident, smiling. What a liar. An angel of a nurse came in with two warm blankets, and his shivering eased. At least three people asked him if he'd had anything to eat or drink past midnight. Another nurse applied his ID bracelet and started an IV, Dr. Atvani came in and went briefly over the surgery again and asked if he had any questions, then the anesthesiologist made his appearance. Finally they called his father, Charlie and Liz in – good, he wasn't sure they would let Liz in, for a final …what? Not good-bye, but everyone had that in the back of their minds.

Liz stepped forward first, and kissed him softly; briefly, murmuring in his ear, telling him she'd see him in a few hours. Then his father, who, to Don's surprise, planted a kiss of his own on Don's forehead. He couldn't remember the last time that had happened, and he suddenly felt, truly, like a child, and he had to fight down the tears that welled up. He grinned, a little crookedly, to hide them. "I'll be okay, Dad," he assured Alan. "You know I'm just as stubborn as you are." Alan smiled, his own eyes moist, squeezed Don's arm, and stepped out of the bay, leaving Charlie.

Charlie was shuffling his feet, staring at the floor, and as he saw Alan leave, his head came up. He moved forward and took Don's hand awkwardly, his eyes dark unsettled pools of fear. They shimmered with tears suddenly, and Charlie whispered, "I love you."

Don felt his heart turn over, but he kept the smile on lips that were now trembling. "I love you too, Buddy. It's going to be okay. You just go sit with Dad; I'll be out before you know it."

The orderly and a nurse came in, and prepped the gurney to move. "We're going to the OR now," the nurse announced, unnecessarily, with a smile. Charlie stepped back out of the bay. "Good luck," he said; his eyes still on Don's.

Don was halfway down the hall before he remembered that Charlie didn't believe in luck. Random occurrences and probabilities, yes, but not luck. Someone held a door open, and the gurney was rolled smoothly into a room and was wheeled into place. Three people, gowned and gloved, were already there. Don felt one of them putting the funny shower hat on his head that they all wore, and another one checked the ID on his wrist. They moved swiftly and gracefully, with practiced ease. An oxygen mask went over his face; and a man, he looked familiar, but damn, it was hard to tell with the hat and the mask – the anesthesiologist? - a man began to ask him questions. Don recognized the questions; he had already been asked them once, but he played along.

"Name?"

"Don Eppes."

"Any prior surgeries?"

"No." His own voice sounded slow and far away. The man was looking a little blurry.

"Have you ever been under anesthesia before?"

He knew the answer, but couldn't remember how to get it out. "No," he finally managed. They knew this already, didn't they? Wow, he was tired.

"You're going to go to sleep now," said the man, and that was the last thing that Don remembered.

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Liz looked across the waiting room at Alan and Charlie, her hands clenched in front of her. It had been over two hours so far, nearly three, the longest hours of her life. Alan seemed to be holding up well, but he was hard to read, she thought. He always looked calm, in control of himself, unless he was in a passionate discussion about something. Don had definitely inherited the control gene from him, she thought. Maybe a bit too much. And Charlie undoubtedly manifested the passionate side of his father, especially when it came to a discussion of something that interested him.

Don's younger brother drew her eye now. Charlie was something of an enigma to her – she really didn't know him all that well yet. She hadn't had much contact with him except during cases, and a handful of double dates that she and Don had gone on with him and Amita. She'd never really sat down to talk with him one on one, and decided that she probably ought to make an effort to do that, soon. She was going to be his sister-in-law, after all.

She watched him across the room, with concern. His face was very expressive, and he really looked like a wreck at the moment. In fact, he had looked bad Saturday night, too, when she'd come over. He hovered nervously all evening, and she left a little earlier than she'd planned; it was obvious that Charlie wanted, no, _needed_ some time with Don. Don had stopped over at her place for lunch yesterday, Sunday afternoon, and told her that he'd woken up in the morning to find Charlie asleep in the hallway outside his room. Don was worried about him; she could tell. He didn't give her a lot of details, but told her that Charlie had taken their mother's bout with cancer and subsequent death extremely hard. Don was afraid of a repeat of that, and looking at Charlie now, Liz was sure he was right to worry. The look in Charlie's eyes… it was as if he were on another planet somewhere.

She heard familiar voices behind her and turned. Megan, David and Colby were coming down the hall toward her – they had gone into work that morning, but had broken away for a little while, trying to time their visit for the end of the Don's surgery. Liz had had to use a day of leave herself, to be here. She rose, accepted a hug from Megan gratefully, and nods from Colby and David. Alan rose, and Megan stepped over to give Alan a hug also, but Charlie remained seated, his hands clasped, his face fixed in a permanent expression of worry. David and Colby gave him friendly slaps on the shoulder, which earned them nothing more than a murmur, and Alan stepped smoothly into the gap, making up for Charlie's apparent inability to speak.

Liz watched them all for a moment, wondering idly how they would take the news about her and Don. That news, as big as it was, was a non-issue at the moment; she could care less. The only thing she cared about was that Don would be okay. Since he had told her about the tumor, she had prayed fervently, every moment, that it would somehow turn out benign, in spite of the odds, or at least, if it was cancer, that it was in a curable stage. She tried to stay as calm as she could, to tamp down on negative feelings, afraid that they would have some effect on the baby, but God, it was hard…

She glanced sideways, and caught a glimpse of someone coming down the hall – it was Don's doctor – "oh my God, he's here!"

She hadn't meant to speak the words aloud, but she must have, because the rest of them turned and came forward. Thankfully, the doctor probably hadn't heard her; he was still a few steps away. A moment later, he was standing in front of them, speaking. She felt dizzy - dear God, she was going to faint – she took a deep breath, and concentrated on the conversation.

Alan was saying, "They can all hear what you have to say, they're all good friends," and Atvani raised his eyebrows and looked behind him. He turned back to them and sighed. "It is irregular to speak to anyone but the family, but I won't tell if you don't." They all smiled a little uncertainly back, and Atvani smiled himself. "The initial biopsy came back benign." He could go no further; the group erupted in exclamations, and an outright whoop from Colby. Everyone, that is, but Liz and Charlie; she felt a huge lump of grateful tears rising in her throat, and Charlie simply looked stunned, staring at the man as if he'd suddenly turned into an alien.

Atvani continued. "Don's tumor was a rare benign tumor, called a multilocular cystic nephroma. What is rarer yet, he had two of them right next to each other. That created the odd-shaped mass on the CAT scan; it didn't differentiate between the two, which was why I was fairly certain it was cancer. We saw something undefined in the fibrous tissue near the kidney; it turned out to be simply swelling and fluid accumulations from his previous infections. The tumors were quite large, which is common for this type of tumor, so unfortunately, I did need to remove the entire kidney. I do expect him to make a complete recovery. We have sent the kidney and the tumors out for a more detailed biopsy, but the initial one is more than 90 accurate. He is in recovery now, and will be for at least another hour, then we will take him to his room – you can see him there. It is excellent news, I think you agree."

Alan pumped his hand, vigorously. "Yes, it certainly is, thank you…" and Dr. Atvani made off amidst a chorus of excited voices. Liz suddenly felt weak in the knees, and was aware of Megan's gentle arm around her shoulders. Liz smiled at her through the tears, and Alan turned from giving Charlie a one-armed embrace, and gave Liz a warm hug of her own. An excited conversation broke out, as everyone expressed his or her relief. Colby wondered how one did with one kidney, and Alan launched into an enthusiastic explanation on how the remaining kidney was able to take up the load. No one but Megan noticed Charlie slip away; walking with a stunned expression still on his face, out the hospital doors.

She excused herself and followed him outside, concern on her face; he seemed to be wandering aimlessly, and she hurried to catch up. He stopped suddenly in front of a bench, then turned and sat as if his legs would no longer hold him up, staring at the sidewalk in front of him. Megan jogged up and sank down next to him, putting an arm around his shoulders. "Charlie, are you alright?"

He turned and looked at her dazedly. "He's going to be okay," he whispered, as if he was just hearing it for the first time, and she smiled back at him, and squeezed his shoulders.

"Yeah, Charlie, he's going to be okay."

He turned, and suddenly seemed to crumple, tears erupted, and he buried his face in both hands, shoulders shaking. Megan kept her arm around him as the emotion released, and after a few minutes, he straightened, wiping his face. "I'm sorry," he said, his tear-stained face still forward, embarrassed to meet her eyes.

"At least you don't need to worry about mascara," said Megan, and as he turned to look at her, she faced him with a smile, and a face just as wet as his. She took a swipe at her eyes, and shook her head at him, smiling through her own tears. "Don't be sorry, Charlie. Don't ever be sorry for caring that much about someone."

Charlie smiled back, tentatively, but it was a smile, the first one in days.

"Come on," said Megan, rising and pulling gently on his arm. "Let's go back in and wait."

Charlie shook his head. "I will, I just need a few minutes."

She looked at him closely. "Do you want me to sit with you?"

"No," he said, but he looked at her with gratitude. "Thanks. Tell my dad I'll be in in a minute."

She nodded, apparently satisfied that he looked okay; then turned and walked back toward the entrance, still wiping at her eyes. Charlie watched her go; then turned his face upward to the sun; his eyes closed, and offered a silent prayer of thanks.

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End Chapter 6


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Don was sure that he must have woken up in recovery, although he didn't remember a bit of it. His first coherent memory was of being wheeled into his room, and a nurse telling him that his family would be in soon. He was done – he was out of surgery. His mind was sluggish, and he kept feeling like he wanted to drift off; in fact, he did for a minute, then a brief bit of consciousness seized him, and his mind rolled to the surface again, like a log caught in a wave. He still didn't know the results; if they had told him in recovery, he couldn't remember.

Atvani had told him if he found cancer, he would probably leave a tube in him, for localized chemotherapy treatment. As scrambled as his brain was, Don did remember that fact, and he decided to explore. With hands that didn't want to obey, he tried to reach around to see if there was a tube, fumbling under the blankets. He could feel the edge of the bandage on his side, and couldn't find a tube, but he couldn't reach all the way around either. Exhausted from the effort, and still almost too out of it to care, he gave up, and closed his eyes.

The next thing he remembered was his father and Charlie, coming into the room. Charlie still looked at little anxious, but Alan was smiling, and leaned over to give him a gentle hug, a wisp of an embrace, trying not to lean on him. "Hi son, how are you feeling?" he asked, as he straightened.

Actually, Don was beginning to feel a dull ache in his side, it seemed far away, but the pain was increasing, slowly. He stared at his father, trying to read his smile. "Okay. Did they get the results?" His voice was thick and slow, too heavy on the "th," stumbling over the "s."

Alan's eyebrows raised a little; he'd assumed Don had been told, but he broke into a wide grin. "Benign, son – it came out benign. You had two large tumors – the doctor did have to take out your kidney, but he said everything looked good. You're going to be fine."

Don felt a muted wave of relief; every thought, every emotion seemed to be stifled by the drugs, but he felt himself relax, almost imperceptibly. Charlie stepped forward, still silent, wide-eyed at the vision of his strong solid brother, so weak, so tired, and took Don's hand. Don smiled up at him, a little crookedly, "Hey Buddy. C'mere." He waved a hand, and Charlie bent carefully over him, as one of Don's arms came up in a weak semblance of a hug, and the other made feeble attempt to ruffle his curls. Charlie started and straightened a little, then caught the mischievous glint in Don's eyes.

Charlie relaxed just a bit, and smiled back. "Hey, I spent all morning on that hair."

Don grinned. "I know. Thass why I did it." He closed his eyes, still grinning. He opened them again. "Where's Liss?"

Alan smiled, his heart full. Things were already normalizing – even Charlie had cracked a joke. "She's right outside. I'll get her."

Don drifted off again in the brief moment it took for her to come in – it seemed he could only manage a few minutes at a time before sleep pulled him under. When he opened his eyes, she was leaning over him, with a smile on her face. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

"Hey baby," she said softly, and leaned over and kissed him, briefly, gently.

"Hey," he said, grinning back at her with a crooked smile. "M'gonna be okay."

"Yeah," she said softly, her eyes full of emotion. "You're gonna be okay." She held his hand, and watched, smiling, as he drifted off, a smile of his own on his lips.

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Don walked carefully, a little stiffly from the kitchen, carrying a cup of decaffeinated tea. It was Wednesday, a week and a half after his surgery. He had been in the hospital for four days, the minimum stay, while they monitored his progress, carefully charting fluid intake and output, making sure the remaining kidney was functioning properly. The first day-and-a-half was a morphine-induced blur; he'd been given a pump with a button, and could administer his own doses, although there was an upper limit on how often the pump would deliver. He'd remembered his mother using one of those pumps – it was good stuff – too good, and he understood why they got him off it as fast as they did. They'd given him Percoset instead, and he was now in the process of trying to wean himself off that, too.

His father and Charlie had taken the week before off; and Alan had taken off Monday of this week also, before reluctantly heading back to work. Don had made it through Tuesday just fine by himself, although he was bored stiff already. He still had at least four and a half weeks to go, before he'd be released to go back to deskwork.

The doorbell rang just as he got to the sofa, but thankfully, before he'd tried to sit. He set down the tea and shuffled over to answer it, and was surprised to find the Assistant Director at the door. Merrick greeted him with a smile, and a handshake. "Don. Good to see you up and about. How are you feeling?"

Don stepped aside, motioning him to come in, wondering what had prompted the visit. "Thanks. Good, as long as I don't move too quickly." Merrick stepped in, and Don indicated for him to sit, and moved carefully to the sofa and sat, himself. Merrick positioned himself in an armchair facing him, and leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

"I'm sorry to bother you at home, but I need to talk to you about what you'll be doing when you go back. There are several options, but for one of them, I need an answer by next week, and I wanted you to have enough time to think about it."

Don's brow furrowed in confusion. "I guess I assumed I'd go back to my current position. I mean, I know I won't be up to field duty for awhile, but I figured I could manage the team from the office until I was able."

Merrick looked at him, and shook his head. "Don, I'm sorry, I guess I thought you understood. You can't go back to your old position."

Don stared at him, speechless. "The doctor told me I'd function normally with one kidney," he protested. "It won't make a difference in how I perform my job-,"

Merrick held up a hand, and shook his head with a sigh. "I know," he said, "it didn't make a lot of sense to me either, but those are the rules. You're considered unfit for field duty now." He noted the stunned look on Don's face, and pushed on. "There are a number of positions you could go to, but there is one in particular that I'd like you to consider. Keep this to yourself; they haven't announced it yet, but they are expanding my area of responsibility. A couple of A.D.'s retired in the last year, and they aren't replacing them – they're having the rest of us take up the slack. Cost cutting; you know the drill. The good news is that they're allowing us to put in a couple of new positions to help us manage the load. I'm allowed two – each person would manage a number of offices. I've basically divided mine into two groups. Group one would be the West Coast offices – the California offices, Portland, Seattle, and Las Vegas. Group two would be the Rocky Mountain state offices, including Denver, and also Phoenix, Tucson and Albuquerque. I need two people to fill those positions, and I'd like you to be one of them."

Don stared at the floor, still trying to get his mind around the information. His eyes came up to meet Merrick's. "What does the job involve?"

"You'd oversee the cases in each office, and probably get personally involved in some of the bigger ones. It would mean a fair amount of travel, but you could manage a lot of it by phone and internet conferences. You're my first pick – and I'll let you choose either of the two territories. My personal opinion is that the West Coast job will be by far the more difficult of the two, and my tendency would be to give that one to my best person, namely you. But I want you for this badly enough that I'll let you choose your area, and the city you want to be located in." He paused. "It's a great job, Don. Great visibility, but you still get to be pretty hands-on. And as far as field duty goes, you were getting up there from an age standpoint, anyway. I'd like you to consider it, and take some time – but I do need an answer by next Wednesday."

He stood, and Don rose with him, and held out his hand, trying to appear composed. "Thank you, sir, thanks for thinking of me. I'll think about it, and let you know."

"I appreciate that," said Merrick, clasping his hand. "You take care of yourself. It's good to see you. Stay where you are, I'll let myself out."

Don watched him go, picked up his tea, almost absently, and sank onto the sofa. He took a sip, not even registering that it was cold; then lowered it, staring at nothing, trying to digest the turn his life had taken.

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He was still thinking about it, when Megan showed up that afternoon, and he looked at his watch guiltily, as he let her in. "Sorry, lost track of time," he said, as he slipped on his shoes, gingerly.

She looked at him, frowning. "Are you sure you're supposed to be going out so soon?"

Don grinned at her. "They didn't say I couldn't. Besides, you can put out your permit and park right in front of the place. I won't have to walk that far."

She was still shaking her head, moments later, as she maneuvered into a spot in front of the jeweler. "You're sure you had to do this today."

"Yeah," said Don, "she's coming over tonight." He paused, and looked at her. "You're coming in, right? I need your opinion."

It turned out, he didn't really. He knew it the moment he saw it, although it didn't hurt that Megan wholeheartedly agreed, and was obviously impressed. He clutched the box in his hand, as he made his way slowly up the walk to the house, exhausted, but triumphant.

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He guided Liz outside after dinner, and she headed for the bench by the koi pond, automatically. He took her arm, and steered her around the back of the house, toward the garden, instead. It had had been a long day already, he was sore, and moving gingerly, but anticipation simmered in his heart. He couldn't wait to do this.

She looked at him quizzically, as he stopped in the back yard, in an alcove of shrubs and flowers, that his mother had created lovingly years ago, and that his father kept up, just as lovingly, in her memory. "We should probably go sit on the bench."

"We will, in a minute," he replied. He had the ring in his hand already; he had fished it out of his pocket, unobtrusively, while they walked. He came around to face her, and went gingerly down on one knee, with a wince, chasing it away with a smile.

"Don!" she exclaimed, grabbing his hand as he went down, concern running through her at his expression of pain. Almost at the same instant, she realized what he was doing, and she stared at him, her mouth open a little.

"I know we already talked about it," he said, still holding her hand, on one knee, "but I wanted to do this right." He gazed into her eyes for a moment, and she looked back at him, her eyes misting a little. He held up the ring; it sparkled, reflecting the early evening light, catching the colors of the garden in its iridescent facets. "Liz Warner, will you marry me?"

She shook her head in amazement, wondering when he'd found time to get the ring. "When did you do this?" she asked softly, and he grinned up at her.

"Don't dodge the question."

She smiled back at him, and answered softly, the words filled with feeling. "Yes. You know I will."

He slipped it on her finger; Megan had given him good advice on the size, and then rose, trying to stifle a grunt of pain. Liz helped to pull him up. "You shouldn't have tried to do this – you're not ready for all this."

He gathered her into his arms, and held her. "I couldn't wait," he said, and kissed her, long, gently, thrilling at the feel of her soft lips against his. They parted slightly, and he looked at her. "I love you."

"I love you too," she whispered, leaning her head against his shoulder.

After a moment, he stepped back and looked at her. "I have something to tell you – about work." He could feel fatigue creeping up on him. "Maybe now is a good time for that bench."

They sat, and he watched Liz look at her hand, admiring the ring on it. "It's beautiful," she said, and he took her other hand.

"Merrick came to see me today, to offer me a job."

She looked up at him quickly, a little startled. "You aren't going back to your current job?"

He shook his head, with chagrin. "That's what I thought. Apparently, I can't. The loss of a kidney means I'm no longer fit for field duty. Merrick is getting more responsibility – don't let this get out - it's not announced yet. They're doubling the offices he's responsible for, and he's putting in two new positions under him to help manage it. One is the West Coast offices, including Vegas, and the other covers the Rocky Mountain States, Arizona, and New Mexico. He wants me for one of them."

She looked at him. "What are you thinking?"

He gazed back at her. "I don't know, I guess for starters, I wanted to know what you thought. There will be some travel involved."

She looked back at him, steadfastly. "What I think is that it's a hell of an opportunity. You'd be crazy not to take it."

He looked at the ground, frowning. "I guess I thought so too. I just wasn't sure how I felt about leaving what I was doing…"

"It doesn't sound like you have much of a choice," she reminded him gently.

He looked back at her. "We haven't even talked yet about what you're going to do."

She smiled. "I know. As soon as I give them word that I'm pregnant, I'll be going off field duty myself."

Don had a sudden vision of her in recent raid, in a flak jacket returning fire at a gang of drug dealers, and a spear of panic stabbed him. "You'd better do that, soon. I don't want you out on any raids."

She raised an eyebrow at him, a bit amused at his protectiveness. "Just so you know, after the baby comes, I fully intend to return to field duty."

He frowned. He hadn't considered that possibility – him sitting in an office, while his wife was out taking down felons…it didn't feel right. "I don't know; I'm not sure I like that idea."

She looked at him sharply, but her words were gentle. "You spent years in the field, Don, in spite of people worrying about you, and you did it anyway. You're saying I can't have the same opportunity?"

He sighed. "You know I'll support you, in whatever you want to do…it's just, I don't like the idea of you being out there…"

"Without you?" she finished. She smiled at him. "Maybe now you'll understand how your father and brother felt about you, all these years."

He looked at her, and she smiled sympathetically at the expression his face. He smiled back, ruefully. "I guess I wouldn't have expected any less of you." He glanced back toward the house, and stood, and she rose with him. "Well, come on then, G-woman," he said, his smile softening, "Let's go tell them our news."

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End Chapter 7


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

They stepped into the living room, Don holding Liz's hand, and Don cleared his throat. "Dad, Charlie, do you have a minute?"

Charlie was bent over a notebook at the dining room table, Alan was in his chair leafing through a newspaper, and their heads came up simultaneously. Alan looked at Don and Liz and caught the joined hands, the look in their eyes, and knew immediately. His eyes went to her left hand, and his heart swelled with sudden, joyful anticipation, as he caught the sparkle of a ring. He tried to act as if he didn't know what was happening, but he could barely suppress a smile, as he folded the newspaper. He shot a glance over his shoulder at Charlie, who looked clueless, and a little worried. "Charlie," he said, "why don't you come in here?"

Charlie said nothing, but rose from the table, and sat on the edge of a seat, as Don and Liz moved toward them, and stood in front of the sofa. Don looked at Liz, and smiled; he felt suddenly giddy, and proud, and bursting with anticipation, like a kid who was about to tell his parents he'd gotten an A on a difficult assignment, or cleared the bases with a grand slam home run. He turned his eyes on his father and brother. "Liz and I are getting married." He paused, to let that sink in. Better drop one bombshell at a time.

Alan was out of his chair like a shot, beaming; his arms open wide. He reached for Liz first, giving her a hearty embrace. "Congratulations," he said, "welcome to the family, dear." He pulled Don into a bear hug, and pulled his head toward his; then separated, looking at him with such love and joy that Don felt his heart twist. "It's about time," Alan managed, and they laughed.

Charlie had come up behind him, quietly, gave Liz a hug of his own, and then embraced Don. "I'm really happy for guys," he said. His words were quiet, and he was smiling, but Don could see a bit of something else in his eyes, which he couldn't quite make out. Surprise, maybe.

Don looked back at Alan. "We've got more," and paused. Alan looked back at him, and Don grinned. "You know those grandkids you've been wanting – well, Liz is – we're expecting."

This time Alan was surprised, and his jaw dropped. "No sir – you're serious- that's wonderful!" then he laughed, an incredulous smile on his face, as he grabbed Liz again, and pumped Don's hand so hard that Don winced. He stole a glance at Liz, she was quiet, but her face was shining, and Don realized suddenly that she might have been worried about how the news would be taken. His father's reaction had apparently put those fears to rest.

Charlie was staring at them, his mouth open, but as his eyes caught Don, he smiled, and moved to give Liz another embrace. "Congratulations," he said, smiling at Liz at he stepped back, and gave Don a handshake, that turned into an awkward one-armed hug. "Congratulations, bro-," He was smiling, but the odd look was still there in his eyes, and Don looked at him closely. Charlie caught his searching look, and broadened his smile, but turned away.

Alan was standing there, shaking his head with a delirious grin, looking at the two of them. "I just can't get over this - ," he broke off suddenly, and strode for the dining room. "This calls for a toast."

An awkward silence descended, and Charlie scuffed at the floor with one foot; then looked at Liz, shaking his head. "I'm going to be an uncle," he said, as if just figuring that out, and Liz smiled at him.

"You'll be a great one, I'm sure," she said softly, and Charlie grinned, a little awkwardly.

"Well, you'll never need to hire a math tutor," he said, and Liz laughed. He smiled at her; his eyes caught Don's again, and he turned away. "Maybe I'll go help Dad."

Liz sighed, contentedly, and looked at Don. "Well, that went well," she said.

Don grinned back. "Are you kidding? If my dad were any happier, he'd be unconscious." She laughed, and they sank into the sofa, but Don's smile faded a little, as he watched Charlie push through the door into the kitchen.

Don delivered the news about the job offer over glasses of champagne for all them but Liz, who drank a juice concoction instead. He could tell his father's night was getting better and better – he knew that Alan would like the idea that he was finally going off field duty. Charlie, on the other hand, seemed to get more quiet, and more…Don still couldn't place it. His brother seemed happy, and Don chided himself for expecting too much out of him. So he wasn't turning cartwheels, it wasn't like he was upset, either. And what would he have to be upset about?

"So, which one are you going to take?" asked Alan, as if taking one of the positions was a foregone conclusion.

Don smiled at Liz. "Well, if I took one, it'd be the West Coast job – I guess we'd want to be based here in L.A…." he trailed off, looking at Liz for confirmation, and she nodded.

She looked back at Alan and Charlie, and caught the look of relief on both of their faces. "Of course, we'd want to stay here – besides, my job is here."

Alan looked alarmed. "You're going to keep your job?"

She laughed at him teasingly. "Now you're starting to sound like Don." Alan grinned back, a little sheepishly, and she assured him, "I'm putting in my notice tomorrow – they'll take me off field duty, don't worry."

Alan got up and poured another round of champagne, which Charlie declined; then asked Liz where they might want to live, and they launched into a conversation about school systems, chatting away like old friends. Don had cut back on his pain medication, but even the small amount in his system seemed to be magnifying the effects of the champagne, and he grinned at them happily, enveloped in warm glow. He half-noticed that Charlie got up to bring his glass to the kitchen, but didn't realize, until much later, that his brother had quietly disappeared.

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Don waited until Friday to call Merrick and accept the West Coast position – he'd waited to talk to Liz about it one more time Thursday evening. Merrick had thanked him profusely, and then told him that he was thinking of Megan Reeves as Don's replacement to head up the L.A. office, with which Don heartily agreed. Friday evening, his team had stopped over, bringing pizza and well wishes, and it turned into an impromptu party.

Saturday, he woke, feeling rested, happy, at peace. In spite of the relatively drastic changes in his life, he felt good – things felt right, and he was looking forward to the future. He sat in the kitchen over coffee with his father, and he could see that same peace and happiness in Alan's face. Don had climbed the wall – the memory of it was still with him, but he was back on the other side. He had a future, a bright one; he could make plans again. The contrast from what he faced two weeks ago was startling; the reversal in his fortunes complete.

He was just taking another sip of coffee when Charlie walked through, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes, and a murmured good morning. He declined an offer of coffee, saying he had work to do, and headed out the back door. Don watched him go, and felt a twinge of concern stir inside, the only thing to mar his mood. Charlie had made himself scarce the past few days; avoiding him and Liz Thursday night, claiming with a smile that he was trying to give the lovebirds some privacy. He made just a brief appearance Friday night, before taking off, saying that he had a date with Amita. Good reasons to be gone, but still…Don brought his mind back to the conversation, realizing that his father was still talking,

He went looking for Charlie about forty minutes later. Don could walk without pain now, although he felt a little twinge in his side as he opened the garage door. It was silent, empty, and he frowned, glancing over to the koi pond – he was sure he hadn't seen him there, and he was right, Charlie wasn't near the pond. Had he gone back inside somehow, maybe through the front? Don turned and headed for the kitchen again, and had almost made it to the back of the house, when he caught Charlie out of the corner of his eye, sitting on the ground in the middle of the garden, where Don had proposed to Liz.

He walked over; Charlie saw him coming, but put his head down again, listlessly plucking at the grass. Don eased gingerly down beside him. "Hey, Buddy, what's up?"

Charlie shook his head. "Nothing. Just thinking."

Don kept his tone light. "'Bout what?"

Charlie shot a glance at him, and then looked away, scanning the garden. He was silent for a moment. "I feel her here," he said softly. "You know, Dad keeps this just like it was when she was here, the same flowers, in the same spots, at the same time of year…" He looked over to the corner, where mums were blooming in a riot of colors. "She always put the mums in over there, every fall. Dad had just picked them up Friday, the day you told us about the tumor. He put them in anyway, that weekend. I think he needed to be near her too." He looked down, pulling at the grass again, and Don could see the glint of tears in his eyes. "I wish I could talk to her," Charlie continued softly. He looked sideways at Don. "I guess you kind of know what she went through, now."

Don shook his head. "I don't know everything, Charlie – I didn't go through everything she did – getting that diagnosis, the chemo, knowing for sure that she was going…" His voice trailed off, and he stared at the shrubs in front of him, not really seeing them. "I do understand some of it, though. The fear, the guilt, the loneliness – you feel like you're on the other side of some invisible wall, and everyone else in on the other side. They're moving on with life, making plans, and you can't, you don't know what the next day is going to bring…" He broke off, as he heard the intake of breath beside him, and his heart contracted as he saw Charlie's head bowed, his hand to his face, trying desperately to fend off the tears. "Hey," he said softly, putting a hand on Charlie's shoulder, "hey-,"

Charlie spoke, his voice broken, his head down, his hand still shielding his eyes. "I let her down. I didn't realize until I started working on Cognitive Emergence how powerful the mind is, how it can affect your body. I've been reading about cases where cancer went into remission for no good reason, and studies they've done on how people's outlooks affected their prognosis. If I'd been there with her, given her support, instead of making her worry, maybe it would have been enough…" A sob broke from him; he couldn't go any further.

Don looked at him, remembering Charlie's incessant hovering, finding him sleeping in the hallway. '_That's why he was doing that,' _he thought_. 'He was trying not to what he did with Mom - he was trying to stick with me…' _The thought brought a lump to his throat. "That's not true." Don's voice was quiet, but emphatic.

Charlie tried in vain to muffle a sob. "You don't know that."

"Yes, I do. That's one thing I do know, after going through that." Don took his shoulders gently, so that Charlie was facing him. "Charlie, when you went into the garage like that, I didn't understand it at the time. I admit, I was pretty pissed off at you, and then as it went on, a little scared – I thought you were losing it. But Mom wasn't upset about it, and now, after going through this, I know why. When you're facing a cancer diagnosis, the only thing worse than the loneliness, is the guilt. You feel incredibly guilty about putting the people you love through what you know will be pure hell, for all of you. If you have children, it's got to be so much worse."

Charlie shook his head, wiping at a tear. "But it wasn't your fault."

"No, it's not your fault, but you know you're still the cause. It doesn't make it any better, knowing that you can't help it – you still feel guilty. And you would give anything, anything, to make it easier on them. Mom knew that your work in the garage made it easier on you; it helped you cope. That had to ease some of the guilt, Charlie – that's why she didn't mind. So in an odd way, you really did make her feel better – I'm sure it took away some of the stress. I understand that now, completely, and I can tell you – it's God's truth - that I'd feel the same way."

Charlie stared back at Don, absorbing the conviction in his eyes, and felt something; just a hint of the hard iceberg of grief inside him, give way. He took a deep breath, and looked back at the grass, nodding a little.

Don released his shoulders, but continued to watch him. "That's not all, is it?"

"What?" said Charlie, his eyes darting toward him, then away.

"Something else is bothering you."

Charlie shook his head.

"Charlie, you're a terrible liar. It has to do with me and Liz, right?"

Charlie sighed, and looked at him, his shoulders slumping a little. "It's not a big deal. It's just, well, you know what you said about feeling like everyone's making plans, and you're not part of them – you feel lonely…" he broke off and shook his head. "It's stupid – I really am happy for you – forget I said that." He started to rise, but Don put a hand on his arm.

"It's not stupid, Charlie," he said softly. "And you shouldn't feel like you aren't part of it."

Charlie smiled grimly, and shook his head again. "Don, think about it. Number one – you will have a new house somewhere, and a wife, who will want and deserve your time. Number two –you'll be having a baby, and you can't tell me that won't completely consume your non-work hours. And then there's the new job…" his expression saddened, and his eyes drifted away. "It's just that, after all these years, I felt that we were getting closer, and now your free time will be, well let's face it, not free, and we won't even be working together anymore."

"Who says we won't be working together anymore?" Don demanded. Charlie looked at him uncertainly, and Don continued. "Charlie, Merrick wants me to be directly involved with the bigger cases – and with all those offices, there will be plenty of them. If anything, I'm going to need you more, not less. I was thinking the other day that I wasn't sure if you'd be able to handle everything I'm going to want you to do. And it'll probably mean some road trips, just you and me – we'll have to travel together to the other offices." He saw Charlie's face begin to relax, relief in his eyes.

"And as for our house, and the baby – you're welcome there anytime, and it's not just me saying that – Liz says she wants to get to know you better – she wants you and Dad over, a lot. She wants the baby to be close to his uncle and grandfather."

"His?"

"What?"

Charlie grinned. "You said 'his.' Do you know what it is?"

Don colored, and grinned back a little sheepishly. "Actually, no. I guess I just think of it as a 'him.'"

They paused and looked at each other for a moment, smiling, and suddenly Charlie reached for him, and hugged him, holding him close. "I love you," he whispered, "and I'm glad you're okay."

Don hugged him back, his eyes tearing, just a bit. "I love you too, Buddy." They separated, and Don looked at him, earnestly. "And I'm not going anywhere. I'm still here, whenever you need me."

Charlie nodded and smiled gratefully. "Yeah," he said, "me too." He rose, dusting himself off, and held out a hand, helping Don to his feet. "Thanks – thanks for the talk."

Don smiled. "Don't mention it." Charlie turned and began to head toward the house, and Don started to follow, then stopped for a moment, and looked around the garden. Charlie was right; Don now knew, at least a little, what his mother had gone through. He was now firmly back in the land of the living, but he would never forget being on the other side. He suspected, as long as he lived, a little piece of the wall would be with him, always, reminding him that each day was precious. He closed his eyes, feeling her, just for a moment, and then followed his brother into the house.

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The End


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